Together
by thatblue
Summary: Clara and the Doctor find each other in the aftermath
1. Chapter 1

Clara woke up gasping, the sky burning above her.

No. Not a sky, and not burning-at least not anymore

At least not anywhere but in her dreams. Or rather, dream. It was only ever the one, night after night, leaving her more exhausted getting out of bed than when she'd climbed into it.

She threw back the covers with a sigh, sat up and dropped her legs over the side. Judging by the soreness in her throat, she'd been crying out again.

The Doctor must have heard. He'd be worried when she made it to the console room- spend the day giving her second glances and trying to comfort her the only way he knew how. Awkwardly.

She smiled, despite the ache in her chest. At least she still had him. At least one world kept right on spinning.

Standing, she shuffled across to the bathroom. Clara made sure to avoid the mirror as she reached in for the shower handle and pushed it as far as it would go. Steam filled the room, and only then did she undress.

Clara washed as quickly as she could manage, letting the nightmare and tears rush off down the drain. She stepped back out better than she'd gone in. A little more human-more than ready for a new adventure.

She'd go anywhere. Everywhere. Do anything for a new sky and new air. Or trees. Or people. Anything to fill the hole Danny had left in her. Anything to forget, even for a just a moment.

Never, for all her trying, had she understood the Doctor's running as much as she did now.

She pulled her clothes on over still damp skin, and opened the bathroom door. Cooler air rushed in as she stepped out.

On the bedside table, she found a mug of tea sweetened to perfection. Next to it, a nutrition bar-the same kind the Doctor been trying to get down her for a week.

She glanced at the door, but he remained on the other side of it. Always just out of reach.

Clara took another sip of tea, put the mug down to grab the bar. They tasted awful- like cardboard and chocolate. Still...he'd taken the time to bring it to her.

It was nice to be reminded that he cared.

She peeled back the wrapper, took a bite and swallowed. Clara wrinkled up her nose, and forced herself to repeat the action.

The sooner she finished, the sooner they could go.

* * *

"My flat."

He'd actually done it- taken her back. In the middle of the night, too. Clara swallowed. Of anywhere in the universe she might have been expecting, it wouldn't have been here. Never here. Never again.

The TARDIS doors shut behind her. She waited, until she was certain she wouldn't hear the whirring of the engines, before turning to face him. Her nails dug into her palms, the pain keeping her on the edge of crying. She wouldn't give in, wouldn't let him see how badly shoving her off would hurt.

"You haven't been home in weeks, Clara," he said.

So soft, and unsure.

Guilty, maybe.

"Because I didn't want to come back, Doctor," she said, forcing air in faster.

She didn't feel right. Her vision darkened.

She took a few steps back. She needed space. They needed space. She couldn't think clearly. She'd gone too long without sleep, her head wobbled and she reached out for the closest solid object.

"Clara!" she heard him call out, felt nothing as the world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks soniczephyr for letting me throw words at you until they became this  
**

"Clara!"

The Doctor jerked upright. His hearts pounded inside his chest and ears.

 _Clara._

Stretching over the side of her bed, he scooped up her wrist, and felt for the spot where her pulse would beat the strongest against his fingertips. He counted, fought back panic with evidence. With proof of life.

Not dead. Not this time.

How much longer, though? How much longer until he let go of her hand at the wrong time, or stepped out onto the wrong planet, and he lost her forever. When would he be forced to stand by and watch the last of her days burn up all at once, or watch her fade and blow away from him, pulling his hearts along in her wake?

How long until he did something, or missed something that couldn't be repaired by a few extra meals and a long rest?

The knot inside his chest twisted a little tighter.

He could save her.

He should have done it already.

He should have brought her home the first time, or the thousandth time he told himself to do it. He should have listened to himself when he vowed to stop reaching for their little hands - to stop showing humans a universe that would dazzle and destroy them in turn.

If he really wanted to protect them, her, then he'd stay far away.

He threw a look over his shoulder at the TARDIS in the corner of her too small bedroom.

The temptation to run - to do exactly what she expected of him from the start - crashed over him again. He lost his breath.

He could (should) leave now, never look back. She could fill in the gaps with work, with routines and bedtimes. And breakfast.

Clara liked breakfast.

And any Clara-shaped holes he might find inside himself could be stuffed full of stars and planets and danger. It would never compare, would always leak light, but it could be enough.

To save her, could he lose himself?

The rest of her life under the same sun. Clara actually surviving him should be worth any personal cost.

The Doctor swallowed, scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked Clara over once more.

He didn't stand a chance.

He was far too tired, too selfish to give her up now. Not like this.

As long as Clara wanted him, he was hers.

Letting out a ragged breath, he shifted in his seat. If he couldn't run, he'd have to do staying properly.

He'd just have to do it differently. He'd never been any good at sitting still, had too much regret and too many mistakes in his rear-view to be the sort of man who enjoyed reflection.

It would only lead to brooding, and when Clara woke, she wouldn't be pleased to find him doing it at her bedside.

So he climbed to his feet, wiped his palms against his shirt, and headed for the TARDIS.

He could, at least, make lunch.

Pushing the TARDIS door open, he ran his fingers over the console as he walked by, and headed for the kitchen. Finding it where he left it came as a pleasant surprise, and he patted the door and murmured a 'thanks' as he entered.

The top shelf had the cook books. Clara had put them there, maybe in the hopes that the food they'd bought might turn into an actual meal someday.

It hadn't.

He yanked them down one by one, flipping through and looking at pictures.

There. Soup.

Even if he had lost all his culinary skills, he thought he could manage soup.

Gathering up all the ingredients, he tossed them and the book onto a tray and headed back through the TARDIS. He'd use her kitchen. She probably wouldn't mind if he cleaned up after himself.

He'd just have to remember to do that part.

Shutting the TARDIS door with his foot, he glanced at Clara once more, and slipped out of her room.

Dropping the tray onto her counter, he opened and closed nearly every cabinet and drawer until he found what he needed.

 _Funny little organization system here, Clara..._

He flipped the heat on beneath the pot, dropped the lid over it, and returned to her room to wait.

He just hoped she'd be pleased to see him, that he'd done the right thing by staying.

* * *

He smelled the soup, his stomach responding at once. He could admit, for the little it did to ease his guilt, he didn't just forget Clara had needs. He'd become quite adept at forgetting his own as well.

Her bed squeaked.

The Doctor pulled his eyes open, sat upright, fingers gripping into the arm of the chair. Another shift. Clara let out a long breath. She pulled her eyes open, blinked up at the ceiling. He sat silent, words tumbling over each other too fast to settle on the right ones.

In the last body, he would have said them all.

Now he said none.

She sat up slowly, sniffed the air, and turned to see him. She froze, fingers digging into the blanket that had bunched up over her lap.

Reaching up, she rubbed at her head and tucked the hair he'd been dying to touch back behind her ear.

"What happened?"

"You collapsed."

She blinked at him, and it took a him a beat too long to realize she expected more information.

"I put you in bed."

 _Good job, Doctor. Very helpful_

Clara groaned, flopped back against her bed and closed her eyes.

"Are you sleeping more?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder. "There's soup."

" _You_ made soup?" Clara asked, cracking open an eye and looking at him.

" _I_ made soup,' he agreed, standing up. "It's probably edible, too."

She let out a breath. It sounded like a laugh, closer than he'd heard in far too long. He fought back a smile, and headed for the door.

"Doctor?"

He glanced back over his shoulder.

"Why didn't you leave?" she asked, eyes moving to the TARDIS.

He sighed and turned back around. He'd been hoping to put off this conversation until sometime in the next century - didn't want her to see how close he'd been to doing just that.

He didn't think 'I'm trying to save you ' would go over well as an excuse. Not for her.

"I didn't bring you here to leave you, Clara," he said, shaking his head. "I just wanted- I want you safe."

He swallowed the rest of his words and drew in a breath. Clara's fingers tightened into the blanket again and her eyes did that thing. The sad thing. The scared thing.

The knot tightened a little more.

"I'll get the soup," he said, spinning around and heading back out of the room.

 **DW**

Clara pushed the covers off her slowly. Her stomach growled, and she ran her hand over her shirt. The same one as the previous day. She didn't imagine the Doctor would ever be brave enough to undress her - even if only to put her to bed.

Leaning forward, she ran her fingers over the arm of the chair he'd left behind. Safe. He only wanted her safe. She could accept the idea of Earth being safer than the rest of the universe, though she knew that anything could happen anywhere.

She could accept he hadn't just brought her here to dump her, no matter what she had first thought when they'd arrived at her flat.

He'd stayed though. When he could have run, even if only to fill the hours she slept. He could have left, with every intention of returning before she opened her eyes - and likely getting it hopelessly wrong.

But he hadn't. He'd pulled a chair to her bedside. He'd made soup.

He didn't cook for her. He hadn't since...

They ate on the run, or slumped against the TARDIS counter, eating ingredients that would never quite make it to a meal. Who had the time? She'd never really minded it, though. She'd accepted it as a new fact of their existence, a shift in their way of life. A small one, really, considering.

She'd moved on, no looking back, no expecting what she couldn't have.

Now. Now her eyes stung, and she wiped her cheeks free of the moisture at once. He didn't know what to do with tears, and she didn't have the first clue about how to explain their cause.

* * *

She felt better after washing her face. The darkness under her eyes had eased, and she found herself smiling at the faint sounds of the Doctor in the kitchen. He muttered, a cabinet shut loudly, and then she heard his feet as they moved by the bathroom.

Clara looked herself over again, as if it would matter if she pulled the brush through her hair.

She did it anyway.

She took in a deep breath, and headed back to her room. She found him inside, balancing a tray on the bed. Steam curled up out of a bowl of soup - which smelled far better than she wanted to admit aloud - and a glass of juice sat next to a spoon.

She took another step and he spun around to face her.

"Clara," he said. "Come sit."

"In bed?"

"Of course in bed," he said, waving his hand at the tray. "Before it gets cold. It won't taste good cold."

Brushing by him, she climbed back up on her bed, and scooted until he could settle the tray over her lap.

She nearly asked what he'd done with the Doctor she knew and loved, but thought better of it.

"Thanks," she said, instead.

He nodded, slid the bowl and glass closer. She took a drink obediently, watched as he retrieved a second bowl and settled back into the chair.

"Eat, Clara. Please."

She grabbed the spoon, lifted it to her mouth and blew. Clara tipped it into her mouth. Warm, salty. Not unbearably so. Good, actually. She heard him exhale, then the sound of a spoon, scraping against the bottom of his own bowl.

He stared down into his soup, remained silent, so she followed his lead.

Her eyes still felt heavy, doubly so after she'd finished her food. Clara shifted the tray to the side, scooted her way to the edge of the bed.

The Doctor's hand fell over hers, his fingers tightening until she stilled.

She looked down.

He still touched her, of course, in passing. A rare hug, a brush against her when in danger. This one surprised her anyway.

"Rest, Clara."

"I'm fine, Doctor. I just-"

"Clara," he said, and she met his eyes - both hard and soft at the same time.

She nodded, sighed. Gave in. Hopefully he wouldn't get used to it.

"Fine," she said. "But not in bed. On the couch."

He squeezed her hand, his thumb stroking over the skin and then he pulled it away. She swallowed, the feeling lingering even as he climbed to his feet.

"I'll clean up," he said. "Find a movie or something. Whatever you humans like to do. I forget."

He gathered up the tray, threw her a look over his shoulder and left her sitting on the bed to try to sort through her feelings alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I apologize for such a long gap between the last chapter and this. Real life has been...real life. I can't make any promises, but I do fully intend to finish this story and the next couple chapters are already planned out, so hopefully there won't be such a gap this time. Thank you to all who read this.**

Clara flopped down onto the couch, stretched her legs out across the cushions. Scooping up the remote, she flipped through the channels with the same halfhearted interest she'd given everything since Danny's death.

She could hear the Doctor moving in the kitchen. He'd made grand claims of tidying the room, but she couldn't be bothered to get up and ensure he hadn't stumbled into something a little closer to destruction. She simply didn't care. Couldn't care, actually. For the first time she could recall, and much to her surprise, she felt relief at the idea of ceding her control.

Briefly.

Her muscles ached from the way they'd been held tightly for too long, and her thoughts remained the sort of sluggish one night of sleep and one proper meal couldn't begin to address. If he wanted to stick around, wanted to help, she couldn't think of a single good reason to refuse.

"Clara?"

Clara jumped. The remote slipped from her hand, landed in the center of her chest, and rolled to a stop in her lap. She cleared her throat and hurriedly scooped it up again. The Doctor didn't seem to notice. Or he had finally pulled out the note cards and learned some tact.

Either way, when she looked up, she found him silent and nearly motionless in her doorway. In front of him, he held a bright blue box, his fingers drumming out an almost nervous rhythm against its sides.

Pushing herself upright, Clara tipped the remote onto the center cushion. She watched him, waiting for him to take the few steps needed to join her, or wave off the unspoken offer altogether.

He did neither.

"Doctor?"

His fingers stopped their beat. She watched his throat bob a few times before he finally stepped into the room. Shuffling across the gap, he stopped at the far end of the couch and outstretched the box to her.

"Eat."

"What?"

"You need the calories," he said, eyes flickering down to the box. He shifted it, plucked something white and tag like off the top, and shoved it into his jacket pocket. "I had these on the TARDIS."

"Doctor," Clara said, shaking her head. "I just ate, remember. I'm not really hungry."

He gave the box a small, insistent shake. The contents rattled and Clara could feel the exact moment her resolve gave way. She couldn't refuse him. Not this. Not today.

Leaning up, she pulled the box from his hands. Clara settled it across her thighs, started to work on the bow at once. With her fingers digging the knot loose, she could nearly ignore the Doctor's exhale of relief. She'd have to face it someday. Admit to all the hurt she'd caused him, all the worry. Apologize. Just not today.

She already had enough guilt burning inside her to fuel a small town.

Clara popped the top. Propping it up against the arm of the couch, she looked the contents over. Candy. Chocolate, if she had to guess - covered in delicate and multicolored nearly translucent wrappers. She looked back up at the Doctor, who remained motionless at the other end of the couch. After a moment he smiled, nodded down to the box.

Swallowing a sigh, Clara chose a tan wrapper. She peeled it back carefully and found smooth, dark chocolate inside. Balling up the wrapper, she dropped the candy into her mouth and the trash beside her on the couch.

Rich, with a hint of caramel. She couldn't complain.

She paused. When the Doctor didn't react, she selected a light pink wrapper and worked the chocolate free. She dropped it into her mouth, let it melt, and wondered just how much more she'd have to eat until he felt satisfied. Or, at the very least, how much more it would take for him to drop the statue imitation and sit down beside her.

Bitterness exploded inside her mouth, followed directly by sharp, mouth-watering, sourness. Her lips puckered, her tongue trying to eject the candy before she could reopen a wrapper. Spitting it out into her hand, she scraped her tongue against her teeth until the feeling and taste began to ease.

In her hand, the mushy mostly melted chocolate, pooled in her palm. The neon pink center remained untouched.

The Doctor made a noise. Clara narrowed her eyes, turned to look at him. His cheek twitched. His shoulders relaxed, then the rest of him. The tension, the worry lines around his eye, all seemed to fade at once.

"Those are my favorite," he said, dropping down onto the couch and spreading out on his half.

He leaned over, fingers dancing over the chocolates before he snatched up a blue one and began unwrapping it. Pushing it into his mouth, he chewed and shifted his focus onto the screen

Apparently dismissed to deal with her handful, Clara climbed to her feet and headed into the kitchen.

When she returned, he had his feet on her table, remote in his hand.

"You watch this stuff?"

"Not really," Clara said, settling down again, looking the chocolates over. "Not home much, remember."

He gave a small nod.

"Where are these from?"

His eyes flickered to her then returned to what appeared to be a bad CGI sci-fi movie.

"New Mars."

"From that little place on the corner?" she asked, leaning back and carefully unwrapping a second tan one. "The one we went to last week?"

His fingers tapped against his thigh.

"Yeah," he said. "Had them for ages. Surprised they're still good."

"Ages?"

"Fine, a week."

She decided not to ask, didn't want to assume they had been bought for her.

Pulling another pink one from the box - she wouldn't dare risk it- she tossed it onto his lap. He smiled, unwrapped it and pushed it into his mouth.

"Blua berry," he said, bright pink staining his tongue even after he swallowed. "They're a delicacy, Clara."

"I'll pass."

The ache in her chest didn't flare in the near silence. She watched the screen, smacked the Doctor's fingers away from the choicest chocolate from time to time. He smiled. She laughed. Normal. She almost felt normal. The overwhelming need to run retreated, left her exhausted and warm. Dropping her head back on the couch, she listened to the movie.

Fiction could fill the holes until time did the rest.

* * *

"Clara, wake up."

Clara drew in a slow breath. With a groan, she pressed her ear harder into the cushion.

"Go away."

"Clara," he said again. "Wake up. Your food is getting cold."

He wouldn't walk away, she knew. He'd keep standing there until she decided to give in, until she opened her eyes and paid attention to him, so she did just that. Blinking until her vision cleared, Clara shoved herself upright, rubbing her warm cheek.

Pulling her feet down from the other cushions - he must have at least tried to make the poor sleeping space more comfortable for her - she yawned. How could she still feel so tired after sleeping away most of the last day?

"Sorry," she said, looking up at him. "Food?"

"Pasta," he said, nodding at the tray on her table. "You were sleeping...so I went out. I did some shopping as well, your cabinets were bare."

"Haven't been home much," she muttered, looking over the bowl of pasta and the golden toasted roll beside it.

Her stomach growled on cue.

How could she thank him for this? How could she say anything without giving away everything - all the fear that he wouldn't be there when she fell, and all the feelings she buried inside her when his face had changed.

"Thanks," she managed at last.

He let out a breath. Relief again. Then he spun around, vanishing off around the corner and leaving her staring at the empty doorway.

Finally, she forced her eyes away, and onto the TV. He'd left it on, the volume turned down too low to hear the words, but it seemed to be the same sort of B- movie scene she'd fallen asleep to.

"They're having a marathon," the Doctor said, returning. He had a bowl of his own, roll balanced on top, two bottles of water filling his other hand. "I watched until I got bored and hungry. They're really bad, Clara. Just awful."

She nearly pointed out that he hadn't changed the channel, but accepted the water instead.

He put his bowl down on the table, dropped the water down beside it and settled in next to her, leg pressed right into hers. She forced out a breath and waited for him to catch the contact and curl in on himself. He didn't. Instead, she watched him uncap his bottle and gulp down half its contents. Clara leaned forward slowly. She scooped up her fork and stabbed at her pasta.

 _This is new...this is nice..._

A rich sauce and perfectly cooked pasta filled her mouth. She'd have to ask him where he went to get it. Later, when his attention wasn't so absorbed in the movie playing out before them. _The awful one._ She smiled around her fork.

It took all her effort not to look over at him, but the bad dialogue made it easier. And the inaccuracies in the movie kept him talking, kept him animated. It filled the silence and the gnawing hole inside her more with every word. And sure, they weren't on some far off world or running for their lives, but she felt...okay. Actually, okay.

Like she might survive shattering. Like she could start again. The Doctor, it seemed, had been right.

The Doctor's fork scraped against the bottom of the bowl, and she gave into the burning urge to look over at him.

"Radioactive mutant dogs," the Doctor said, pointing at the TV with the sauce covered prongs. "Sentient Lima beans. Do you human really believe this stuff, Clara?"

"Says the man with the time machine," Clara said. "You've probably seen sentient Lima beans before."

He shifted, barely reacted at all, but she knew she had him. She grinned and sat up.

"Really?"

"They were kidney beans, Clara," he muttered, then looked at her. "And they sure didn't have any movies about radioactive dogs."

"Did they have dogs?"

"Are there any chocolates left? I'm still hungry."

"You ate them all."

"Liar."

She leaned over, grabbed the box and flipped the top off it. There were two left, tucked into the corner. She glanced at him, plucked one up and tossed it to him, as she unwrapped the other for herself. They'd have to get more when they did make it back out there.

His attention returned to the screen. For all his complaints -and there had been many - he'd seemed pretty enthralled in the movies. She gave in, watched him for a moment, swallowed away at a lump she didn't want to understand and knew all too well.

She still loved him.

Even his face changing, her finding Danny and losing him, couldn't shake the feeling. It ran deep and true. She still reached for him first in the darkness, and would always come running knowing that it would cost her everything. She'd thought they'd lost all that, had been rattled too far out of each other's orbit, had become two people who sort of needed each other - out of habit if nothing else.

But she had loved him even when she hated him. And now, with him on her couch, reminding her over and over that he still had her back...well, she couldn't imagine how she had ever convinced herself otherwise.

Clara watched him watch the TV. Pain flared inside her, burning deep and hot, swallowing up all the air. Danny. She should have let him go. She should have saved him while she had the chance. Clara dug her fingers into her thighs. She couldn't keep running from the agony, couldn't keep half-healing and forever threatening to break at the sound of his name. If they had stayed out there, Danny's ghost would have always been chasing them across the universe.

She supposed the Doctor knew that better than anyone.

She swallowed fresh tears as the movie came to a less than a climatic close. The Doctor remained clueless, balling up the wrapper and tossing it into her lap in favor of grabbing the remote. She took slow, steady breaths, as he flipped through the channels.

"Now, see," the Doctor said, stopping the channel switching. "This is a real movie, Clara."

Clara glanced at the screen, and her breath dumped out of her.

"Clara?"

"Danny loves...loved this movie."

"I'll change it," he said at once. "We can find something else. More radioactive dogs?"

She shook her head.

"Leave it. Please."

She could feel his eyes on her, but she couldn't look over. She couldn't give in. The volume went up, and for a moment, Danny was back at her side. His laughter close to her ear, his lips against her cheek.

"Clara...we don't have to watch-"

Clara let out a sob.

It broke over her lips before she could bury it, and another followed.

The remote dropped, slid off the couch cushion, and rattled to a stop on the floor. His arms wrapped around her, pulled her in tight and close, her nose pressed into his shirts. Warm. He felt so warm despite his actual body temperature, and for once he said nothing. His fingers rubbed lightly over her spine, and a hand reached up to stroke at her hair before pulling her in tighter.

And she couldn't quite get in a lungful of air, but she didn't mind. She let her feelings break loose, crying until the pain inside her began to become bearable again. When the tears finally stopped, and she was left with shuddering breaths and swollen eyes, she turned her head, her fingers curling into his jacket.

She pulled back slowly, his fingers trailed over her side, down her arm. He squeezed her hand, didn't let go.

"Does it get easier?"

"Never," he said, throat bobbing as he swallowed. "And every day."

She drew in a long breath and stood.

"Just going to-" she motioned for the hall.

He nodded, and she hurried off to the bathroom to wash her face. To collect herself. To let go a little more. Danny, in all his goodness, would want that for her.

 **DW**

The Doctor watched the doorway for a long moment, before scooping up their bowls. He headed into the kitchen, fumbled through washing them, but she still hadn't returned. He looked over his shoulder. No Clara. He dried his hands too slowly. Still, no Clara. He dried his hands again and then tucked the towel away, smoothing out the wrinkles.

Nothing.

How much longer until he could justify busting down the bathroom door in the name of checking on her?

Probably never.

He'd give her another minute.

He tapped out a beat against his leg, far too frantic and sporadic to be called a song, even in his head. _Long enough_. He started down the hall, stopped in front of the door. He'd just knock. She couldn't be upset if he knocked. He hoped. Raising his hand, the door swung open to reveal Clara - eyes red and cheeks pale, but otherwise whole and fine.

"I was just-" he started, lowered his hand. "Are you okay?"

"I think so,' she said, stepping out.

Her fingers wrapped around his arm and pulled him along back to the couch. She dropped down, her grip unrelenting. Slowly, he slid down beside her. Their legs pressed in together, her very human heat soaking into his layers at once. He felt certain that no one as old as him should be so befuddled by such innocent contact. He forced the feelings away, everything that could ever be if he ever found the courage. Everything that would never be if he loved her enough to keep her safe.

None of that mattered now. She needed him to be a friend. He might have stumbled off the path, but he vowed to show her that he still remembered how. The light from the screen flickered across the dim room. Clara laid her head against his shoulder.

 _I'll keep you safe, I promise_

Slowly, he raised his arm, dropped it down beside her. Waited. She scooted into him, exhaling slowly and pressing her head against his chest. Not crying this time, at least. That felt like progress. He relaxed. She softened against him, the tightness of her body slowly fading away.

He could do this. The touch didn't bring the familiar itch to move away. It had stopped, nearly always, some time ago. For her. Only for her.

He watched the screen. He'd really have to do something about the shows if they were going to stay here. They needed more channels, more than one century to chose from. Still...it wasn't all bad. He could watch two people running through the forest, with Clara pressed against his chest, for a while longer.

* * *

He jerked his head up, fingers tightening against - Clara? He looked down, the TV still flashing over them. She had her eyes closed, hand fisted loosely into his shirts. He exhaled, tipped his head back. _Think._

She needed the sleep. He couldn't deny that. Still, waking up would be awkward, and he had no idea how she might react if she knew he'd done it first and didn't try to send her off to bed. He forced his fingers to release the hold over her ribs, slowly pulled his arm back.

His mind insisted a few more minutes wouldn't hurt. He didn't listen. The sooner had her off to bed, the sooner they'd both rest easier. The sooner his whole world wouldn't smell of her shampoo.

"Clara," he said, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. "Let's get you to bed."

She groaned, inhaled, trailed her nose across the center of his chest before she lifted her head. Clara leaned up, blinked blearily at him for a few moments before she seemed to connect the dots.

"Okay."

He stood, pulled her up beside him. She stood still, shoulders slack. He reached out, wrapped a hand around her back and slowly shuffled them toward her room. Pushing the door open with his foot, he moved them over to the bed, threw back the blankets. Clara turned to face him.

"Thanks, Doctor," she said, leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "For staying. For everything."

He nodded, didn't trust himself to speak. Instead, he pulled the covers up over her. She drifted off again at once.

He reached out, brushed her hair back, leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple before turning and forcing himself out of the room.

He'd stay on the couch.


End file.
